Category: creative writing

I never knew I was attached to the way my mother smells until she changed her perfume. Her simple ‘rose’ wasn’t enough for her anymore. I beg to differ. The sweet, plain scent that comes from burying your face in her neck came with a sea of silk scarf, the faint tint of her bureau drawer still lingering on the cloth. Everything about the scent is lovely; have you ever met anyone who doesn’t like the sweet scent of rose? Now there are different types of roses, the kind of deep red rose you buy with Baby’s Breath for Valentine’s Day and then there is the kind I am talking about. Continue reading “The Maternal Rose”→

I never was aware of the fact that I “wrote” until the spring of my second year in college. Yes, I’ve always written papers for class and I took creative writing in high school, but I never considered that this is what a writer is. Within my world of peers this was normal. We all wrote because we had to and got decent grades. I had always known I was a good writer, but to me, that just put me at ‘average’ in a rigorous prep school. I got what I think of as ‘average’ grades and assumed that writing was something a large percentage, if not all, are good at. And while I was partially right, I hadn’t encountered a poor writer up front before to realize how natural writing is for me. However many nails it feels like I am pulling when I sit down to write an assignment, it is fewer than others, or at least more of a natural habit to me. Continue reading “Why I Write: A Meditation”→

I sat up and stared off into the dim light of the barn. A cool spring night breeze blew through the aisle. Maiden paced in her stall; her breathing was heavy, sweat thick on her neck. I looked at the time, the glow of my cell phone illuminating my makeshift bed of blankets and hay bales. 2:30AM. I had been awake all night and was going to be there until the foal came.

I leaned back against the wide boarded wall of the barn, pulling a wool cooler up around my chin. My eyelids started to drag, the darkness of the barn willing me to sleep. Continue reading “My Maiden”→

The young blonde girl watched as the woman tried to control the large blonde mass of fur and skin, grabbing his ruff just like a mother does to her pup. The two other dogs bounded around in the snow.
The woman gripped the yellow dog and turned to talk to his new owners, “He’s quite a handful, you’ll find out why they called him Bandit.” She says, her breath making rings on the cold New Year’s Day.
The new owners smiled as only veteran dog owners do with tough pets,
“Well, I have to get going. I hope everything works out better for you with the yellow dog. See you tomorrow, Jonathan,” the woman said to the tall dark haired man.
“Mommy, why did she grab him around the neck like that? Doesn’t it hurt?” the young girl asked. Continue reading “Cosmo”→

When faced with a public toilet, the first thing I do is assess the situation. Is the seat wet? Is the seat dirty? How clean is the bathroom in general? Does it look like there are germs crawling everywhere? Is there toilet paper? Do they provide you with the little seat covers, assuming the seat is not clean enough? Has someone carved his or her initials into the stall wall? Did they sit? The dilemma can take a few minutes, or it can be an instantaneous decision. Continue reading “To Sit or Not to Sit: A Dilemma”→

My spirits start to lift at hearing Billy Joel’s voice sing, “Harry Truman, Doris Day, Red China, Johnny Ray…” from Mr. Fadden’s chemistry classroom. The late afternoon sun shines on the linoleum as I walk down the hallway towards the music to my favorite class of the day. When I finally reach the classroom, Mr. Fadden is standing at the door to greet us with a wide smile and a “Howa youh, Bud?!” in a thick Boston accent. As if I were not happy enough to just be going to his class, his comment makes my smile spread even wider, showing all of my teeth and making my cheeks pinch up. Continue reading “Mr. Fadden”→